“You get taller?”
Fucking asshole.
I exhale with exasperation and open the door. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably eating this up. And I’m sure that’s what he’s doing for the next three hours while someone from maintenance repairs the keypad above the door handle, discovers they don’t have the correct part, leaves to procure said part, comes back, actually repairs the door, and only then do Colson and I begin executing the security checklist.
There’s minimal talking, throughout. I try to distract myself by sending awkward texts to Barrett. She tries to remain serious and offer moral support, but I keep cracking jokes. I can’t help it. It keeps me sane and breaks the tension—for me, not Colson. I’m not sure Colson ever feels awkward about anything. He’s usually too busy making everyone else uncomfortable.
When he walks back into my office from testing the keypad next door, I set down my phone and try to compose myself after nearly descending into a fit of laughter from Barrett’s latest GIF. Colson rounds my desk and leans against the metal cabinet behind me, watching as I refresh the monitoring program that records who goes in and out of that room.
“Is it fixed?” I ask as I wait for the window to refresh.
“Yeah, it’s fixed.”
But an error code in red text keeps populating the line next to the time stamp.
“It’s still throwing an error. You could get in, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Piece of trash,” I mutter in frustration, closing out the browser and pulling up my Teams chat, “it has to be the software. I’ll IM Tony and see if he knows what to do.”
I finish typing my message to Tony, who manages the system, further frustrated that the yellow icon next to his name indicates he’s idle and won’t respond immediately.
“You can go now,” I say without looking up from my screen.
Colson crosses his arms in my periphery and glances out the window, “I don’t have to be on north side until 2:00.”
I should’ve IM’d Dallas instead of Tony and asked her to come get her brother out of my office. Or, better yet, I should IM Nate and tell him I’m in danger and he’s the only one who can help me.
“Sorry,” I shake my head with a bitter laugh, then my smile abruptly disappears, “get out.”
“Get out?” Colson’s voice hitches with curiosity.
“Yes,” I spit over my shoulder, “leave, before I go to HR.”
He shifts his weight and drops his hands to the edge of the cabinet, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
My head slowly swivels toward him, “Oh?” Now, the thought of him threatening me evokes aggravation rather than fear.
Colson shrugs with indifference, “You’ll just make April jealous. If you’re going to brag on me to anyone, you could pick someone better. She’ll tell everyone, and I know you wouldn’t like that.”
He’s not wrong, and I hate that I agree with him. April’s the worst HR rep I’ve ever met. She has a horrible habit of making snide comments about people that are hilarious, but totally break any shred of confidentiality that exists. She’s the reason everyone found out that the head of finance got arrested for assault in the parking lot after the Christmas party last year because she started referring to him as “Fisticuffs” at the all-staff meetings.
I don’t want to know what she would do with this nonsense.
“I don’t need this from you,” I hiss, spinning around in my chair, “I don’t need you watching me, I don’t need you touching me, and I sure as hell don’t need you gaslighting me and telling me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing!”
Colson shakes his head, “I never said you’re not seeing what you’re seeing. I believe you.”
“Then why are you acting like you haven’t been the one texting me and breaking into my car to leave me creepy gifts?”
“So, I was right,” he cracks a smile, “you do have more admirers.”
I press my mouth together, biting back a frustrated grunt, which only makes Colson smile. Maybe I was wrong when I told Barrett he’s too honest for his own good. Maybe he’s just a liar, after all, because he’s certainly lying about this.
“Yeah, well,” I glare up at him from my chair, “I thought about a few things you said. So, I finally told Barrett about you.”
The corner of his eye twitches with curiosity, “What did you tell Barrett about me?”
For a split second, there’s a glimmer of hope that I’m the one making him uncomfortable.
“Everything,” I reply flatly.
Colson presses his mouth together like he’s trying not to smile, “And?”
“She said I need to find a therapist to deal with your emotional abuse and then talk to HR and the police.”
He ponders this and, after a few moments, looks more disappointed than concerned, “Is that all she said?”
I stare at him in astonishment. I imply that he should be in prison and he sounds disappointed that Barrett wasn’t more impressed. Granted, there’s no way I’m telling him everything she said. But perhaps he was hoping she’d want to evaluate him and see how many pathologies he qualifies for. Maybe he collects them like shot glasses.
“And you’re manipulative,” I continue, “and you say or do disturbing things when you know I can’t leave.”
“I intimidate you to give you a clear conscience,” Colson says with indifference, “you’re welcome,” he winks.
“Well, you don’t,” I hiss back.
“Intimidate you or give you a clear conscience?” His tone turns patronizing, “Because I’d be glad to scare you into submission if it helps you avoid another existential breakdown. Your mixed signals are getting exhausting.”
